


A Fair Few Apologies

by Kacka



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-18 08:51:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5918047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kacka/pseuds/Kacka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four times Clarke hears Bellamy say 'I'm sorry'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fair Few Apologies

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't get to go to my State Fair this year and I was really bummed. If you've never been to one, you're missing out!
> 
> In other news, the most recent episode kind of ripped my heart out so I'll be living in an alternate universe until I can pull myself together.

**one**

Clarke is looking down at her phone as she wanders through aisle after aisle of handmade crafts and amateur photography.

The artisans building is one of her favorites at the State Fair, foremost because it doesn’t smell like livestock or nauseatingly greasy fried food, but also because she loves to see how proud people are of their work from the past year. She has a few pieces up in the amateur painting section, like she has since she was in high school, and she even won a ribbon for one of her works this year. It’s very flattering, and she might even be able to put it on her resume when she starts applying to jobs at galleries after she graduates.

She’s waiting for her mom to finish wrapping up at the judging station. It’s the last day of the fair and Abby has promised to help Clarke carry her canvases out to the parking lot, and then to treat her to dinner at their favorite Mexican restaurant. As a college student– an art major, at that– Clarke is not one to turn down free food.

She’s checking to see if her mom has texted her when she runs head-on into someone walking in the other direction.

They both fall to the ground and her phone slides across the floor, where someone else promptly steps on it, cracking the screen.

“I’m so sorry,” says the person she ran into, and she sees a guy a few years older than she is scramble across the floor to rescue her phone before extending a large, tan hand to help her up.

“It was an accident, don’t worry about it,” she says, examining her phone. “I think it’s still under warranty, anyway.”

“Still,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets. He looks very sincerely regretful, his dark eyes wide and his– admittedly, very nice– shoulders tensed. Clarke tries to give him a reassuring smile.

“Really, it’s fine. Do you know which way the textiles exhibit is? I should go try to find my mom since she won’t be able to call me.”

“Yeah, that’s where I was headed, actually.” He gestures back the way she came and she falls into step with him gratefully.

“Are you a big fan of textiles?” Clarke asks. She doesn’t usually see many college-aged people, much less guys, hanging around the needlepointing.

“I have a quilt for show,” he says, the back of his neck turning red.

“Really? I have some pieces up in visual art. How’d you get started doing that?”

“My mom taught me,” he says, though he doesn’t offer any more information.

“Are you from around here?” Clarke asks, trying to change the subject since he didn’t like that one. To her relief, he relaxes into this question a little more.

“Nah, we have a farm a couple of hours away. Growing up, I always tried for the biggest pumpkin thing, but that never really panned out. So I thought I’d try quilting.”

“That’s cool.” He looks over at her with heavy skepticism and she puts on her most genuine expression. “No, really. You’re defying stereotypes.”

“Because I’m not an elderly woman?”

“Precisely.”

He slows to a stop in front of one of the booths and gestures to one of the quilts hanging on the wall.

“This one is mine.”

It’s technically not a great quilt. Clarke can’t sew to save her life, but she knows a little about colors and she knows those mostly don’t go together. It kind of looks like someone took whatever scraps of fabric they could find at home, in whatever shapes they already were, and patched them together. It looks cozy, but kind of like a trainwreck and Clarke loves it.

“Hey, you got a ribbon! Congrats.”

“Thanks,” he says dryly. He sounds a little bitter. “It’s a participation ribbon, though.”

“Did you have your heart set on a big blue?”

“Not necessarily, but– small family farms aren’t that lucrative these days. I was really hoping it would do well, and then I could market future quilts as award-winning or something. Even this one didn’t sell, though.”

“Have you heard of Etsy?” Clarke asks, tilting her head at the quilt. “As long as you’re into defying gender stereotypes, you should check that out.”

“I think my sister has bought some stuff off that site,” he says, squinting at his quilt as if he’s trying to imagine it online. “I’ll see what she thinks about my chances.”

Just then, Clarke’s parents walk up, their hands full of her canvases, including one with a big yellow ribbon attached.

“You ready to go, honey?” Jake asks, smiling down at his daughter and the quilting guy. “Hi, I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Blake, isn’t it?” Abby asks. She’s one of the textiles judges and Clarke can see in his eyes the moment it clicks where he’s met her before.

“It’s Bellamy, ma’am. Bellamy Blake.” He sounds decidedly less friendly now than he did a second ago.

“That’s right, I’m sorry. It’s nice to officially meet you.” She turns to Clarke with a chiding look. “Did you turn your phone off? I tried calling you three times.”

“I’ll tell you about it in the car,” Clarke says, taking some of the canvases out of her mom’s hands. “Good to meet you,” she says to Bellamy, though he’s looking at her a little judgmentally now.

“Yes, I hope to see you and your quilts again next year,” Abby says, smiling at Bellamy before turning to leave. Clarke smiles too, but she can feel his reproachful gaze burning a hole in her skull almost all the way out of the building.

 

**two**

The following year, Clarke has almost forgotten about meeting Bellamy Blake when she runs into him in the cattle barn. He’s standing by one of the stalls, chatting with a pretty girl with long, dark hair, and Clarke nearly turns to walk the other direction.

At the last minute, she maintains her course, telling herself he’s probably forgotten his grudge by now. Probably won’t even remember her.

Unfortunately, that’s not the case. He sees her approaching and turns to square himself to her, smile falling off his face.

“Bellamy, right?”

“That’s right, Princess.”

“Princess?” Clarke frowns. She had a boyfriend who called her Princess, and things didn’t end very well with him. Besides, the way Bellamy sneers it, she doesn’t think he’s trying to compliment her.

“I never got your name.”

“It’s Clarke,” she says, her voice flat.

“Ignore him, he’s just being annoying,” the girl says, standing to extend a hand to Clarke. “I’m his sister Octavia, so I’d know.”

“Nice to meet you,” Clarke grins at her. “I don’t mind when people are rude for a good reason. But he thinks just because my mom is one of the textiles judges, I somehow either influenced her against him before I even knew him or that I won my hard-earned visual art ribbon out of some kind of nepotism even though it’s a completely different panel of judges? I’m not really sure.”

“I don’t think that,” he grumbles.

“You totally do,” Octavia snorts. “I remember you complaining about it last year. You’re just embarrassed now because you realize how idiotic it sounds.”

“Shut up, O.” His voice is gruff but he sounds affectionate.

“Is she yours?” Clarke asks, motioning to the cow Octavia was just tending to. “She’s beautiful.”

“Yep,” Octavia says, beaming proudly. “This is Cowgirl. Don’t judge, I was in middle school when I named her.”

“I like it,” Clarke laughs.

“Do you want to meet her? I was about to give her a snack.”

Clarke usually doesn’t get too close and personal with the animals at the fair, but she can tell Octavia’s welcoming attitude is getting under Bellamy’s skin and she kind of wants to spite him, so she agrees and finds herself offering Cowgirl some grassy feed. She’s distracted, laughing at something Octavia is saying, when Cowgirl finishes what’s in Clarke’s hand and starts nibbling on the hem of her shirt, looking for more.

“No, girl,” Octavia admonishes, dragging Cowgirl away and dumping some more feed in her trough. “Oh, no. She ripped the seam a little.”

“It’s no big deal,” Clarke says, glaring at Bellamy when he lets out a mocking laugh. “Better than a broken phone.”

“I think Bell has a sewing kit in the truck,” Octavia says, shooting her brother a pointed look.

“Yeah,” he sighs, opening the gate for Clarke to exit. “Come on, Princess. I’ll fix your shirt.”

They walk to the parking lot in silence, stopping off first at Clarke’s car so she can grab her gym t-shirt she keeps in her trunk. She has to dig around under the blankets she’d wrapped her canvases in so the paint wouldn’t chip, and when she emerges triumphant with the shirt in hand, Bellamy is giving her a strange look.

“Is that my quilt from last year?”

“So what if it is?” She mumbles, slamming the trunk and starting to walk away.

“You bought my crappy quilt,” he accuses.

“It’s my crappy quilt now, and it’s not crappy.”

“The stitching is sloppy and the pattern is a nightmare–”

“I liked it, so I bought it,” she says, glaring up at him. “I like things that look real, like someone worked hard on it and put a lot of care into it. Now are you going to fix my shirt or not?”

He relents and leads her to a pickup truck, letting the gate down so they can sit in the bed while he sews. It’s done quickly, and she sticks it in her purse when he finishes, rather than pulling another quick change while he has his back turned.

“I’m sorry,” he says on the walk back to the artisans building, so quietly and begrudgingly she almost misses it.

“What for?”

“For acting like an immature jerk. And for my sister’s cow,” he smirks. She bumps him with her shoulder.

“I didn’t get the quilt to buy your goodwill.”

“I know,” he says, peeling off to head back toward Octavia. “That’s why you have it.”

 

**three**

Clarke doesn’t seek him out the next year, but he finds her.

She hasn’t been at the fairgrounds practically the whole two weeks it’s been open, but she had to come today to take down her pieces. She'll take them back home where they’ll sit in her room and she’ll see them every day and want to cry.

Her art is more serious this year. Darker.

She’s done a series of portraits of herself with her dad. It starts bright with warm colors, him holding her in his arms just after she was born. Next is him pushing her on the swings when she’s a little girl. It’s shown from high above the swing set, and it looks a little like she’s leaving him behind. After that, it’s a closeup of his proud face, with the ghost of an image of her receiving her high school diploma, reflected in his glasses. The last portrait is in black and white, and it’s her laying flowers by his grave.

It’s only been a couple of months since he died. She painted the pieces to work through her grief. She doesn’t necessarily want to hang them in her apartment, much less at her mom’s house.

The blue ribbon on the last piece feels less like a victory and more like a consolation prize.

She’s been staring blankly at the pieces for almost an hour when she feels an arm come around her shoulder. Even though she’s only met him twice, hasn’t seen him in a year, she knows it’s Bellamy and she can’t not lean into him.

She doesn’t know how long they stand there before he says softly, “I’m so sorry.”

 

**four**

She bounces on the balls of her feet, waiting eagerly for Bellamy to show up at his booth.

They’ve kept in touch this time. At the end of last year’s fair, he’d given her a business card for his Etsy shop with his cell number scribbled on the back of it.

“I know what it’s like to lose a parent,” he’d told her, sticking the card pointedly into the front pocket of her purse. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

She hadn’t texted him that night, but she had later, when she was lonely and missing her dad, under the pretense of custom-ordering a quilt for Abby's birthday. They’d started chatting aimlessly, and it had been nice. Distracting. Fun.

He’d told her about trying to supplement the farm’s income with what he called his overpriced quilts, and she’d told him about how her mom got the job judging at the fair because Clarke's grandmother had been a quilter and Abby was personal friends with the guy at city hall who helps oversee the city’s special events.

He’d told her about feeling guilty when he’d left the farm to go to college and she’d told him about the dark days when she almost regrets majoring in art.

She'd learned that he's snarky and generally disgruntled, but that he's also loyal and passionate. They've reached a level of friendship where she texts him gifs from various movies he hasn't seen and he tries to guess their context, often leaving her laughing until her sides hurt.

Last she’d heard from him, last night, in fact, he’d asked her if he could take her on a date while he was in town for the fair. She hadn’t known what to say, so she’d just left it until she could see him in person.

She’s been waiting about an hour when he shows up.

“Hey,” she says, giving him a sunny smile.

“Hey,” he says hesitantly. “Look, Clarke, I just wanted to say sorry if I–”

Before he can continue, she steps right up in his personal space and gives him a gentle but lingering kiss.

“Don’t apologize,” she says, smiling at the awestruck look on his face. “Just get your stuff set up and I’ll let you buy me a funnel cake.”

“Sounds perfect,” he says, rolling his eyes despite his goofy expression. And yeah, it kind of is.


End file.
